With These Words
by Ripki
Summary: Merlin waits and writes. All his letters are for Arthur. (Spoilers for the finale, fix-it fic, M/A.)


I have been a lurker in the Merlin fandom for a few years, eagerly reading all the great stories many talented writers have written about Merlin and Arthur. It figures that now the series has ended, I finally write something of my own. But the finale was so devastating and so beautiful, I had to write something. So here is my attempt at fix-it fic, inspired by Nick Cave's lovely song "Love Letter".

* * *

With These Words

After, words fail him. Merlin manages to mumble an incoherent account of Arthur's death, a few empty consoling words for Gwen, a quiet yes or no. He manages to say goodbye to his friends, to Gaius, for the last time.

After, he spends a long time in silence, his grief too big for any sound. There is only one word he would say, only one name, and he will not utter it again for fear of it tearing him apart. Words are pointless, for there is no one to talk to, or more accurately, no one he would want to talk to. No one to annoy or tease, no one to advice, no one to chatter idle things to, to tell all that is important.

A long stretch of time goes by, and Merlin starts to lose the shape of words, the sound and meaning of them. One day he wakes to a fear that he won't be able to say all the things he desperately wants to Arthur, when his fallen king finally comes back. If Merlin won't be able to say Arthur's name, who will? There is none but him who remembers anymore, none but him who loves.

And so Merlin learns to talk again, learns the new speech of men, learns how to write with new letters. He talks with tramps and beggars and shopkeepers and milkmen and thousand more. He talks about the weather and the bad roads and the taxes and the current regime. Merlin never talks about himself or the long forgotten Camelot, now only a myth. He never tells about Arthur, his golden king, his desperately missed friend.

But with every word he utters, others build up, demanding to be told. They lodge painfully in his throat, until he tries whispering them into the nothingness of the night. _I wait for you_. He swallows them back, fingers trembling. _It has been so long. _There is no one to hear them.

The pressure builds, becomes nearly unbearable. And then one night, Merlin picks up a pen and starts to write.

-o-

The letters are for Arthur, every single one.

The first one is simple, only a few messy lines of black ink, a collection of old truths. _I wish you were here. I am still waiting. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. _

The ones that follow are lengthy observations of the habits and rules of the changed world, still forever changing. He describes particularly those things that he thinks would amuse and enrage Arthur, taking special care to portray the changes in the servants' pay and free time, until there is hardly such a thing as a servant's trade anymore, not in the traditional meaning of the word. He tells about great warships and trains and airplanes, how men wage war now. In one letter, Merlin meticulously and in great length tries to explain electricity. He grins after finishing it, thinking it will bore Arthur to tears.

In one letter, he lists all the kings and queens that have followed Arthur, describing their time ruling with a few sentences – disastrous, inane, tolerable. He is maybe more vicious than is fair, but none of them had matched Arthur as a ruler. Gwen had been a good queen, ruling a peaceful and prosperous Camelot, but she had been Arthur's choice, his legacy. All the others that followed were diminished somehow, further and further away from Arthur's line, his memory.

Merlin writes about mundane things, how he hates the sound of traffic, how the stray cat refused to leave until he relented and gave it a can of tuna fish. He tells Arthur how he took a long walk to a small bakery in the next village and got delicious blueberry muffins. Arthur has to try them; those and the chocolate cake are simply to die for. The pun only stings a little.

Sometimes he only manages a small note – _lost my hat today, weather is appalling_ – or few fragmentary words, without any meaning, _I – so long we – maybe. _

When he goes to a new place, Merlin buys a postcard. Usually there's a picture of a landscape or a building printed on the card, but sometimes Merlin picks the most horrendous card he can. The one with a cow and a farmer had been a particular stroke of genius. He never buys any stamps. The cards go to a wooden box, with the rest of the letters. After they are written, he never opens them, never reads them. They are not his anymore.

With some written words, Merlin remembers. He reminisces about their hunting trips, their quests, even the quiet days spent inside the castle. He tells stories about the great king of Camelot and his most trusted servant. He tells Arthur about his magic, all those times Merlin used it to save him or mislead him or just to dry his boots. He writes how much Arthur's words of acceptance mean to him, how many times he recalls the sound of them, the way Arthur said them, looked at him. How that memory, so painful but so dear, is always in Merlin's heart.

Confessions that so long ago seemed impossible to say are now easy to write. All that went unsaid are finally written without hesitation, without shame. Merlin writes,

_I know I failed you. _

_I wanted to kiss you so many times. _

_I still love you, still wait for you, always, always._

_Please, come back to me._

-o-

The wooden box is full of letters, notes, postcards, scraps of paper. There is no room for more. The box sits in the corner of Merlin's small living room, next to the hearth. It seems to mock him. Only a fool would write a letter after letter, never getting any reply.

One night, when he feels the crushing weight of time, still going onwards and still without any sign of Arthur, Merlin picks up the box and opens it. His own handwriting meets his eyes, countless of words, some already fading. No more letters, he decides, the whiskey rolling bitterly in his stomach. There is no point. No one is ever going to read them.

In a fit of senseless rage, he flings the content of the box into the hearth, and the flames eagerly devour the papers, curling them into blackened scraps. Horrified, Merlin watches until his words are nothing more than ash and soot. It feels like an ending. It feels like Arthur dying again.

-o-

Time doesn't stop. Merlin doesn't write again.

-o-

There's nothing remarkable about the day it finally happens. It is like any other day, in any other year and century. There is no tremor, no thunderbolt and no divine spectacle. There is only a red letterbox that has never gotten any post but a few leaflets, and in that letterbox, a simple postcard.

Merlin looks at the card with a trembling heart. At first, he thinks it is a cruel joke. Then he realizes it can't be, for no one knows who he really is, what it means to him to get a postcard picturing Avalon. For that's what it is; a picture of the lake and the small island in the middle, wrapped in mist. There is no text on the card, no written words. But it is summons, nonetheless.

The journey to Avalon is a blur, and later Merlin can't recall how he made the trip. One moment he is standing at the door of his cottage, clasping the postcard to his chest, the next he is standing at the shore of the lake, the hope so bright and strong it hurts to breathe.

He looks and looks and looks, until his eyes mist with tears. He stays the night, rooted to his spot, the very same place where he watched Arthur float away from him hundredths of lifetimes ago. _Please come back to me_, he writes in his mind.

At the dawn of the new day, there is a boat in the lake. Steadily, it comes nearer to the shore, and Merlin can see there is a shape in the boat, a shape that becomes a human, until finally he can recognize the beloved features, the golden mop of hair.

In a flash, Merlin is in the water, hands reaching for the boat. Entering the lake feels like rebirth, and without looking at himself Merlin knows he is young again, as young as his king, who sits beautiful and unaltered by time and death. Merlin reaches for the boat, but gets Arthur's hand instead; the grip is strong and warm. Their eyes meet and for a moment Merlin is completely speechless, struck mute by Arthur's brilliant smile. Then the word he has wanted to say so badly again comes to his lips, and he can't be silent anymore.

"_Arthur_," Merlin says, the name a sob, a plea, a prayer.

Arthur tumbles out of the boat, into the water, never letting go of Merlin's hand. He wraps his arms around Merlin, holding him tightly, whispering Merlin's name.

Merlin presses his wet face against Arthur's neck, inhaling his scent, never wanting to let go. The words rush from him like a dam has been burst. "You're here – Arthur – I waited, it's been so long, you're finally here, there is so much I want to tell you, I can't –"

"Merlin," Arthur interrupts gently, and his eyes are full of tenderness when he loosens his hold enough to look Merlin in the eyes, "I know." His hand touches Merlin's cheek almost cautiously. "I got your letters, every single one."

"How?" Merlin cannot help but ask, although it really doesn't matter. It seems that magic can still take him by surprise, after all these years.

Arthur shakes his head, smiling. "I'm not the expert here. But I still want you to tell me everything."

"I will," Merlin says quickly, heart so full of joy.

"And I will tell you all the answers I thought to your letters, all the replies I wanted to write," Arthur slips his fingers through Merlin's hair, his words soft but certain. "How you never failed me, and how I missed you, how I waited and wanted to come back to you." He presses a kiss to Merlin's forehead, breathing deeply. "How I wanted to kiss you too, but never had the courage."

"You can kiss me any time you want," Merlin promises. To prove it, he gives Arthur a small, quick kiss, smiling all the while.

"I plan to," Arthur murmurs, "but let's get out of this damn lake first." They start to trudge to the shore, hand in hand. "And I really want to see the electricity," his king adds.

Merlin starts to laugh, brimming over with happiness, with words that are going to be heard.


End file.
